


Hunter x Hunter

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019), The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover Pairings, M/M, Modern Era, Polish Mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23241571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: Criminal profiler Malcolm Bright and NYPD detectives are clueless when rabid killer goes on psychotic spree targeting senior citizens. While he doesn't fit Malcolm's profile for murder, freelancer Geralt Rivia is suspiciously connected.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 14
Collections: Prodigal Son Trash Swap Spring 2020!





	Hunter x Hunter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [officiumdefunctorum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/officiumdefunctorum/gifts).



> Based on this prompt:
> 
> "Who's really hunting the monsters?
> 
> Witcher Crossover. Malcolm and Geralt, Malcolm/Geralt, I have no preference. I would love to see some Jaskier in there, though. Go nuts."

Malcolm, for once, enjoyed his time in-between major criminal cases. He had snagged an exclusive reservation for a private event, an invitation limited to those who were truly dedicated to antiquing. In the chill of autumn, he wore a blue wool suit and his magenta tie and a white pocket square. 

He was sweating under the wool as soon as he saw her, radiating with a posh glow that he yearned to get his arms around. Malcolm sipped his wine and decided on a meandering approach to avoid contending with another client who would obviously desire to possess her.

From the edgy spike of her dague to the perfect grip of her shaft, she was an iron lady. Silver roses adorned her shapely head, as was the style of a modern Persian beauty. Though he hadn’t yet committed to purchase, he had his eye on the battle axe wrought by a Tehranian artist in the early 1900s, dating to the establishment of the Pahlavi dynasty. 

As he played coy, Malcolm peered through his glasses at a pleasingly arranged display of medieval European swords, deliberately pointing the toes of his brogues in a feigned show of nonverbal interest. For such events, he wore his spectacles for the fine print inked on the information cards tagged for each item. His attention was momentarily sparked by a steel sword which could be traced to the mythical Butcher of Blaviken. With each perusal, his mind became hopelessly mired in silver roses. 

Malcolm didn’t want to racially profile, but he didn’t like the look of the potential buyer in a fez cap blatantly hovering near the battle axe. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, Malcolm yielded an undisclosed surfeit of currency and jealously secured his seventh axe.

Flush with the dopamine release that accompanied material acquisition dearly paid for, Malcolm indulged in some healthy eavesdropping nearby a pair of gentlemen engaged in an intellectual disagreement over a pitted relic.

“What in your observations indicate that this sword is not late Roman in origin? We both agree the weapon dates back to the sixth century AD,” said a reedy man in black with thinning hair beneath his yarmulke.

His adversary, a broader man garbed in a tux with blond hair plaited in a braid, replied in a light Slavic accent, “The sword is what chieftains commissioned in the territory of Wielkopolska.”

Malcolm heard no more of the exchange when his phone buzzed. Mindful of etiquette in private weapons sales, Malcolm exited the staged area immediately. For obvious reasons, smart phones with cameras were discouraged from use.

Grateful that he would have his battle axe, Malcolm went outside, surprised when the night air cooled his face. He hadn’t noticed the hour.

“Hey. Gil. Sorry to make you wait on my response. I was shopping but now I’m freed up.” Malcolm bounced his heels on the curb and hailed a cab before Gil even finished giving him the location of the crime scene.

Malcolm swiped his fare and then jogged towards the specified retirement home in Upper West Side. Malcolm felt a bit wrong-footed when he caught Gil standing outside in the hall lined with apartment doors. Gil blinked in surprise at Malcolm’s spectacles, a blast from the past which Gil hadn’t seen in over a decade, but he proceeded without comment.

“Elderly victim was Waldemar Janko, 75 year old widower, deli chain owner. Resided with his late wife who was American-born Jewish,” briefed Gil. His wedding band glinted when he covered his nose and scritched at his beard.

“You go ahead, kid. I’m going to question the neighbors, see what shakes out.”

“Gil? How much of a mess is waiting for me?” Malcolm smelled eucalyptus and menthol of VapoRub which Gil only resorted to when he was done and would not re-enter a crime scene.

“I couldn’t tell you, Malcolm. Never saw anything like it. Gonna let you do your job.”

Before he went in, Gil gave him a whole roll of mints. Malcolm narrowly avoided doing the double take at Gil’s face. Instead, he briefly ran his hand down Gil’s sleeve and squeezed his elbow.

“Okay, I got it. We’ll talk,” said Malcolm.

The whole place reeked like a meat locker that lost power. His right hand curled around the mints. JT’s black scarf was pooched over his nostrils. Dani cupped a paper mask to her face, likely bummed from forensics.

Waldemar Janko was wheelchair bound, blood tracked all over the hardwood, parallel with skid marks from his frantic struggle. His intestines were tangled in a loop that wrapped his feet. 

Malcolm squatted until he was eye level with the leftovers, his hands in a steeple.

Hours after inspecting the grisly scene, Gil and his team were in the situation room. Malcolm wore his contact lenses. Someone, probably Gil, bought the team cups of premium roast coffee that morning. A comforting aroma blanketed the room.

“Killer is disorganized. The fact that no neighbors report sightings of suspicious characters means our killer was not a person of color nor atypical body type. We are, once again, looking into a white man under 35. He would be malnourished, smell bad from irregular grooming, lives alone, isolated from years to a decade of psychosis which drives the killer’s cannibalism. Owing to the ferocity of the attack, his impulsive nature will drive him to spree kills. Based on absent signs of breaking and entering on Mr. Janko’s locked door, I’m certain that the killer had key access to Mr. Janko, to have caught him unawares.”

Malcolm popped a mint. “He is hungry. He will kill again and soon. Did anyone locate the instrument of disembowelment?”

“No weapon found, Bright,” said Gil.

“Oh, snap. Anyone in here a dog person?” asked Malcolm.

Dani raised her hand to affirm, as she was mid-gulp.

“You’re going to tear us apart with dogs versus cats first thing, man?” asked JT. He folded his arms. “Cuz our babies come up to us all at once when we get home.”

Malcolm paused as he filed away that very important tidbit about the Tarmels.

“We’re looking for a dog. Or we can start looking after the techs analyze the bite marks we saw,” responded Malcolm. He turned to Gil. “I’m not familiar with our resources for handling animals in criminal matters, if we are able to delegate.”

“I’ll send a memo to the sergeant in charge of the Animal Cruelty Investigation Squad. If the ASPCA get involved, it will be after we locate the abused animal and handle their transportation to Ninety-Second Street.” Gil shook his head.

“For now, let’s just deal with people. I’m already baffled how all of Mr. Janko’s neighbors deny hearing a damned thing. Many of them wear hearing aids and a couple have cochlears, but not one person stepped forward as witness. Apparently none of them were aware of his violent death until his health aide Ms. Nikita Rodriguez called 911. Powell obtained Nikita’s statement and broke the news to Mr. Janko’s surviving in-laws. Any leads?” prompted Gil.

Dani thumbed the tip of her nose and slouched forward. “Yeah, the in-laws are his late wife’s close family and the kids from her first marriage. Decent people. Last time they saw him alive was Sunday after he attended 9 AM mass. St. Stan’s cathedral on Humboldt and Driggs. They don’t go with him, because Jewish, but they have lunch every week. In-laws advised me that if he had contact with anyone else before time of death, it would be a friend at church.”

“Good. Powell will verify the family’s whereabouts and feel out any drama or bad blood motive. Call me immediately when our spree killer strikes again. Could be hours or a full day, given Bright’s profile. Tarmel and Bright, you’re coming with me to Brooklyn and meeting with Father Nabozny.”

As the largest Polish Catholic congregation in Brooklyn, replete with masterwork ceiling and stain glass windows, the towers of St Stanislaus Kostka Cathedral could be seen outside of Greenpoint. The Gothic style brick church was roomy enough for a thousand Poles plumped up on perogi and kielbasa and the holy spirit. Gil himself was a child when a notable Catholic figure paid his respects to the Virgin and the Savior. Cardinal Karol Wojtyla, who would later be honored by the statue of himself as Pope John Paul II.

“Nie Boj sie,” Malcolm read before passing through the arches with Gil and JT.

Weekday morning mass services were wrapping up in Polish. Several parishioners of retirement age and a couple college aged youth were queued up for the confessional. The old women crossed their arms and lowered their voices when they caught sight of Gil and JT, badges displayed.

Gil bent the knee before the altar and the marble pulpit. Though Malcolm didn’t go in for religious observation, he certainly appreciated the dignity of their surroundings. Malcolm slotted a fifty dollar bill into the candle box and backed up into Gil who waited to offer up his own billfolds. 

“This is what it takes to get you to church, city boy,” Gil said, clapping Malcolm’s shoulder before he crooked a smile.

Sensing Malcolm’s hesitation, Gil nodded at the unlit votive candles. “What you waitin’ on? The angels to come down or what?”

Memories flashed of Gil and Jackie kneeling beside him and putting their fingers to his childish clasped and shaking hands.

“It’s tough to start with the long list of names. I always forget someone important when I’m leaving,” said Malcolm.

“Just light one,” said Gil. His Zippo warmed Malcolm’s palm.

Malcolm obeyed and then he stepped aside, heartened when Gil lit two candles. He knew who Gil’s first candle was for, would always be for.

“Hey, how come you get to do more than one?” asked Malcolm as they rejoined JT.

“You get your own candle, son. You definitely need cover when you forget yourself,” Gil said, eyes crinkling.

“Har har,” said Malcolm, ignoring the heat in his ears. 

JT was the first one to shake hands with the church pastor, a very tall and slightly hunched man with thick gray brows trailing longer hairs over crow’s feet. His nostrils appeared naturally wide and flared in a large nose that extended quite obviously. While his hairline sat higher on his forehead than in youth, his hair was as soft and white and full as snow drifts. In spite of the bit of rounding in the middle, the priest had firm and even shoulders. On the whole, he was a serious man who welcomed police with genuine friendliness.

“Hello, gentlemen. I’m Ireneusz Nabozny, pastor of St. Stanislaus Kostka Church. Father Ira, for short. I’m blessed and honored to meet you this day.”

“Good morning, Father Ira. I’m Lt. Gil Arroyo. We spoke. I see you and Detective Tarmel are acquainted.”

“Yes,” answered Father Ira. He turned to Malcolm. “And you are…?”

“Bright. Malcolm Bright, criminal consultant,” said Malcolm. Father Ira clasped his shoulder and shook hands.

“Forgive me if I’m being intrusive but I’ve got a grandnephew about your height, Malcolm. He’s in middle school and still growing!” 

Gil and JT had a laugh at Malcolm’s expense as Father Ira companionably held onto him while leading them to his office for a private interview. Gil stood while JT and Malcolm were directed to sit. The fragrance of incense remained strong despite the slightly cracked transparent windows.

“Sorry about breaking the news to you through a message,” said Gil.

“Considering the hour, no need to apologize. I’m grateful we were able to arrange this meeting before my appointments later this morning. The more I can tell you about Wally Janko, the more I can assuage my burdens.” Father Ira twirled the beads around his wrist.

“Wally came to this parish from as far away as Detroit in the 70s. God called me here in 2009 but I wasn’t close with him or his wife Ruth until his health declined in 2012, such that he lost the use of his legs. When Ruth died, I witnessed a personality change. Wally attended more faithfully than when he walked unassisted. Peace was with him and I rejoice that he is in heaven.”

Father Ira’s beads clattered as he delved into past history. “He and Ruth’s family were not always on good terms, especially when they fought over her burial arrangements. Truly, it was a move of God that Wally had a change of heart and came to me as a mediator. He was a good man who became great and he did not deserve to be slain. Detectives, I know in my spirit that family couldn’t have done this, not after the months of effort towards reconciliation and forgiveness over Ruth’s death.”

“What about his family?” asked JT.

“Wally’s family are in Poland. He emigrated in the 60s, worked without sleep, and saved to buy a house in Detroit.”

“You said this was in the 70s?” repeated Malcolm.

“Yes. Wally lived by himself and Ruth was not yet widowed in those years,” answered Father Ira.

“Please don’t take this question the wrong way, Father, but did Wally have any strong feelings about African American people in Motown?” asked Malcolm.

JT’s eyes popped and he pulled a little lined notebook out of his hoodie pocket and made himself look busy with notes.

“He mellowed out,” answered Father Ira. “I’m not unsettled, young man. Bed-Stuy used to be Jewish and Italian. God bless Detroit, but there’s no denying the considerable strife between Poles and African Americans competing for unskilled jobs and housing in those days.”

Father Ira regarded Malcolm. “Wally stuck to his own kind but he wouldn’t have committed hate crimes, wouldn’t have terrorized an innocent family. His life from before he married his wife and adopted her children may have colored certain people in his eyes but he truly loved the people he allowed in. No person who knew him would’ve harmed him.”

“Thank you, Father. I think you’ve given us what we’ve needed. Just to close out, can you tell us who some of his friends were?” asked JT.

“He is in fellowship with many, but his closest friends who I’m aware of are Gia Borkowska and Feliks Lenski.”

“Thank you, Father. Can you, uh, check the spelling on their names?” said JT.

Smiling, the priest did so. He also prayed over them. 

“Our Father in heaven, may your will be done and justice carried out and mercy to the innocent in these dark times. Send your angels to assist the police as they encounter the unknown and dangers and evil. In your holy name I pray,” uttered Father Ira.

“Amen,” said Gil and JT. Malcolm’s lips pursed and he simply nodded.

Gil hiked ahead of them down the aisle to get to his car, leaving JT and Malcolm to be surprised by a little old lady who came after them before they cleared the pews.

“Halo! Policja?” called the little old lady. Her voice shook with nerves, liable to blow away in a chilly wind. 

“Ma’am,” greeted JT.

“You’re here for my brother Wally?” she asked. “This is big church but your timing is good.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Detective Tarmel.”

“Lt. Arroyo.”

“Good, good. I’m Pelagia Borkowska. Friends say Gia,” said Mrs. Borkowska. She had short and freshly styled white hair. A golden brooch, of a dove and a branch, glimmered between the lapels of her open coat.

“We are neighbors before New York,” she continued. “Before we meet devil. Was he who kills my brother.”

Malcolm schooled himself into an attentive expression while JT humored the little old lady.

“The devil, you say,” repeated JT.

“Not Lucyfer,” said Mrs. Borkowska. “Devil comes through wall and drink lifeblood and eat heartgut.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Borkowska, you knew Mr. Janko from Detroit?” questioned Gil.

“Yes, yes. Where it starts,” said Mrs. Borkowska.

“When what started?” asked JT.

“Evil and black hate calls devil,” said Mrs. Borkowska. “Now after years, we are slow run from what comes.”

Their conversation was halted when an older and huskier elderly woman bumped her walker into Mrs. Borkowska.

“Ojej! Nie wywołuj wilka z lasu,” said the elderly woman on her walker. Her tone was surly and her quick glance from police not receptive to dialog.

Waving off the assault, Mrs. Borkowska muttered, “Żena! Co ma wisieć, nie utonie.”

“If you can think of further details, please give me a call. I’m Detective Tarmel,” said JT, offering his business card.

“Thank you, Detective. Remember evil,” cautioned Mrs. Borkowska in parting.

“So, Bright, you got a profile on El Diablo?” asked JT, smirking.

“If the Book is to be believed, I would say that Lucifer Morning Star is an organized criminal. Smooth operator. Plans, plots, schemes. Leaves few clues. Victims are targeted strangers. He attempts to control the victim. Above average IQ. Socially competent. Sexually competent, assuming possession of the body. Angry at the time of the first crime. Definitely follows media coverage.”

“Knock it off, kids,” said Gil. From his tone, Malcolm shut up. He’d forgotten that Gil didn’t make light when it came to certain matters of the ethereal.

Not that Malcolm desired a horrendous outcome, but no call came in for a second gory attack on a senior victim or a fatal break-in. Patrol cops were doubled down in the Upper West Side. They surveyed passerby for sightings of men who matched their profile. 

When the Janko case was two days cold, Malcolm brooded himself into a spiral of doubt that he couldn’t leverage even when he finally received his rosy silver-coated battle axe.

Malcolm reviewed the desired victim characteristics which would have made Waldemar “Wally” Janko appetizing to the killer. 

Then the call came in for the inhumane slaying of another Polish senior within days of the Janko murder, this time in Brooklyn.

Mrs. Borkowska's daughter, in her late 50s, had discovered the shriveled corpse. 

“Can you tell us when you last spoke with your mother?” asked JT.

“Mama called me maybe 7 at night to remind me about our lunch together. She sleeps at 8,” said her daughter. She had her own key to the mother’s apartment. The ex-husband was estranged and lived with his own family in New Jersey. He literally wasn’t in the picture, in all the dozens of framed photos free standing and hanging around the apartment surrounded by ceramic cherubs.

“Is this your mother?” asked Malcolm who studied a sepia portrait of an east European woman who resembled Mrs. Borkowska’s daughter. Her long and black hair was pinned out of her pensive face.

“Yes. Old world beauty.” When the daughter confirmed, Malcolm moved on to a smaller 4x6 inch B&W photo. Three young women and two men, with dark hair and fair skin, posed on a stoop with the numbers 5643 hanging by the door. They didn’t smile but their linked arms and huddled bodies embraced in familial closeness.

“Where is this?” asked Malcolm.

“That’s the old house from before Mama had me. Tata took this picture.”

Malcolm picked up the free standing photo from the living room mantle. His eyes honed in on a young woman who wore a decorative pin on her cardigan.

“Do you know any of your mother’s family who are in this photo?” asked Malcolm.

“That’s not Mama’s family. I never met Dziadzi or Babcia. Most of our family died in the march from Płaszów to Auschwitz, except for Mama’s aunt who went to the gas chamber because she was nine and that’s what happened to the children.”

She touched the photo frame to knock off the dust. “Mama left her faith and married my Tata in the church. Before Mama and Tata moved here, they lived in Michigan. These are her friends and neighbors.”

“Detroit?”

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact,” said the daughter. “Lucky guess!”

“Yes, lucky. May I borrow this photo?” requested Malcolm.

“We would return your valuables. It won’t get taped up in evidence,” said Dani who joined them after her personal inspection of the apartment.

“No, take it. It’s one less thing for me to box up,” said her daughter, sniffling into one napkin from the sorry bundle that Dani fished out of her leather jacket. “I didn’t think it would be this soon.”

“Do you know if any of her friends pictured also reside in New York?” asked Dani, her tone gentle. She touched the older woman’s sweater.

“Thank you, dear. Um. Her best friend goes to St. Stan’s. Ciotka Żena. Last name is Glod.”

Malcolm crept towards the bedroom where Mrs. Borkowska sat up in bed, her death grip on the guard rail. He swallowed when he saw the dove brooch flecked in scarlet. Mrs. Borkowska's peritoneal cavity was hollowed out, the stubs of her ileum gnawed away. Perhaps due to her smaller size, the killer had consumed a greater portion of her viscera. Unlike the sanguine carnage of their earlier victim, Mr. Janko, the crime scene was disconcertingly clean. Mrs. Borkowska's blood appeared to have been displaced from her very veins. Her fingers, her tongue, her lips showed signs of days' worth of extended dehydration despite their recent conversation. 

Once again, their investigative team confronted the maddening scarcity of no witnesses who heard unusual noises or commotion. Neighbors surveyed reported an anomaly of hearing multiple dogs howling in their area. The duration of the howling could have masked the killing. As with Mr. Janko, the little old lady's locks were well maintained and undisturbed.

Malcolm haunted the situation room.

"Killer hears schizoid voices or suffers alter-ego, possibly experiences black out periods," Malcolm read aloud. He capped his dry erase marker, pondering the scenario of a maniac killer's fractured personalities colluding to murder helpless elderly folks. 

JT received a call from Żena Glod on Dani’s behalf. Due to the physical strain of her visiting the station in person when she depended heavily on her walker, JT and Dani agreed to conduct a home interview. While Mrs. Glod hadn't witnessed either murder, her mutual friendships with Janko and Borkowska confirmed a link between the two victims which would decipher the killer's motive.

"How was she?" Malcolm asked when he caught Dani at her desk.

"Spooked to hell, how you think?" pitched in JT.

"Yeah, she spinning in bruja talk," concurred Dani. "Said that her sister Gia was talking to the priest about a witcher."

"Witching? Don't priests do exorcisms? Didn’t Catholic peeps burn witches?" asked JT.

“Don’t leave out the Protestants. They had their own witch hunts, too,” said Malcolm.

"I'd wanna see an exorcism," said Dani. "Loved that movie."

"How are we doing with pinpointing Feliks Lenski?" Gil asked when he noticed their banter.

"He's not living in NYC anymore," said Dani, boots off her desk. "Waiting on subpoena before I get his current address."

"I'll check back," said Gil.

Malcolm dreaded it, but Gil turned to him. "How's the profile, Bright?"

"Outlook not so good, Gil. I might have to split the profile. It's the same killer but we could be dealing with dissociative identities, each one in cahoots. Think a murder gang inside one man's body. The day job persona is the one we could ID from photos and prints. They could be completely unaware of their actions until it's far too late to stop themselves and they're terrified to go to the police. Could be their alter ego cleans the body before reverting to dormancy." 

Bright squished his face and covered his eyes. "To add to the mix, there's a third entity that could be the primal consciousness which rabidly cannibalizes the victims."

Malcolm huffed a sigh. "For now, I'm confident that there's one defined split between the originating personality and the killer inside."

"What could be their motive for killing these old folks?" asked Gil.

"We'd know if we could find Lenski or anyone else who is in their friendship circle. No. Their fellowship," said Malcolm, tripping over his own words. "Our killer is targeting their fellowship."

The next call to Major Crimes was not a homicide, but a neighbor called the police due to disturbances, reports of glass breaking and attacks that could be heard through the walls. The patrol unit that answered dispatch called in Gil’s team when the resident informed them that she was recently in contact with NYPD.

“Thanks, Officer Jackson. We appreciate you contacting us,” said JT. Dani went in to ascertain the health and safety of Żena Glod whose home was the site of the disturbances. 

Malcolm trailed after Dani and JT while police filled out a report with Mrs. Glod.

Mrs. Glod wasn’t home alone.

A large brown dog pawed up to Dani who immediately crouched down to shake. A unique silver medallion with a custom insignia hung from his dog collar. 

“Why, hello, bonito el guapo. You are big and handsome,” crooned Dani. She jerked her head back when the dog got fresh and went in for a lick and dipped his cold nose into her chest, but she still scratched his ears and rubbed at his haunch.

The dog sneezed onto JT’s hand when he went in for a pat. JT made a face and accepted Malcolm’s offer of a hand sanitizer.

“Mmmm is this watermelon?” JT said, surprised when his hands smelled a lot nicer than dog drool.

“Keep it,” said Malcolm. The dog was not friendly towards him either.

“Guess you’re more of a ladies’ man, huh dawg?” quipped JT.

“Jaskier. This is not the time,” said a man, frowning.

Malcolm looked up from Dani patting the dog’s chest and met eyes with a man who was as tall as JT and equally as brawny in build. He wore black denim pants, a long sleeve cotton shirt in black camouflage print, and boots with cleats. Extremely fair in coloring with platinum blond hair tucked in a braid, his eyes were tinted like translucent copper, such a light brown that they almost flashed yellow. 

“Is this your dog, ma’am?” JT asked Mrs. Glod.

Mrs. Glod snorted. “No. That animal likes young.”

“He’s a good boy and a total sweetheart. Most dogs his size try to get me on my back before I’m through the door,” said Dani.

Dani patted the dog one more time before she assumed a more professional stance.

“These are police detectives,” said Mrs. Glod to her male companion.

“Geralt Rivia,” said he. His voice was faintly accented, though not as much as the elderly Poles who they had spoken with in this bizarre mystery.

“Are you family?” asked Dani.

“No,” denied Geralt, his golden eyes staring like a tiger in tall grass.

Mrs. Glod wheezed and slapped amusedly at her walker. “Me? With Wiedźmin as blood?”

“Mrs. Glod, what happened to your place?” asked JT. “Look like Speed Racer gone Too Fast Too Furious up in here but you not on first level.”

“There was break in,” said Mrs. Glod, her accent thickening.

Her windows were blown out, the shattered panes outside of her house in Greenpoint. Her couches were askew, tables upended, and deep grooves in her wallpaper as though a maniac with knives ran throughout the halls.

“Who or what did you see?” asked JT.

“My eyes no good. I see nothing,” answered Mrs. Glod. Her walker rattled beneath her blue veined hands.   
  
Dani tried a compassionate tact. “I’m sorry you were scared but we need you to share key details or information. You could have been killed. We want to stop the criminal who’s been preying on our senior citizens.”

“Darkness,” said Mrs. Glod. “All darkness in house.”

“Were you present at time of the attack, Mr. Rivia?” asked JT.

“No,” said Geralt.

“He visit,” added Mrs. Glod. “He did not see man.”

“I did not,” agreed Geralt.

JT and Dani exchanged looks. JT took Geralt to a different room than Mrs. Glod for more effective lines of questioning while Dani did her best to coax helpful statements from the elderly woman. Jaskier the hound laid his head against Dani’s leg.

Malcolm followed the trail of damage, touching nothing, scanning everything. Much of the destruction on the walls was written in steep gouges and tearing that ran parallel but Malcolm noted singular diagonal slashes with smoother edges. He gleaned that a quick and merciless fight had gone down magnificently in close quarters between a swift and powerful force on the offensive and a slower but similarly strong defender. The first opponent was viciously brutal and lacked finesse in their attacks when they struck first. Malcolm touched where the sloppy gouges and the overlaying angular cuts intersected.

He looked down and inspected the flooring, confused when he noted one set of fresh scratches and scuff marks. Malcolm did not believe these prints were from Mrs. Glod’s medical walker. Without a body, this was not his scene. Nevertheless, he took several pictures on his iPhone.

As Malcolm reviewed his illicit photographs in his photo gallery, he saw the thumbnail of the Persian battle axe he had purchased. Geralt Rivia’s white-blond hair flashed in his mind, followed by the silhouette of his shoulders. Malcolm realized he had encountered this individual before, from when he went antiquing!

Nothing about Geralt matched the killer’s profile, but certain visuals aligned in Malcolm’s head: Geralt’s discomfort in police presence, his attendance at a private event that catered to weapons collectors, and his misandrynous hound, Jaskier. Malcolm doubted that the dog would feast on the offal of human cadavers, but there was no denying that the killer’s profile had teeth, attached to inhuman jaws. Not to mention Geralt’s abysmal timing smack dab in the midst of brutish human cannibalism.

Dani had seen her opportunity and sprang the murdered woman’s photo on her good friend Mrs. Glod. Having caught her unawares, Dani confirmed five names to the people pictured: Feliks Lenski, Waldemar Janko, Pelagia Borkowska, Bożena Glod and Klementyna, married surname unknown.

At Malcolm’s recommendation, Dani informed Geralt Rivia that he would be taken to the precinct for more questioning. Mrs. Glod was fearful despite assurances that Geralt was not under arrest and would not be detained for long. Police would be staked out in front of her house should the criminal return. 

Jaskier the hound accompanied Geralt to the precinct but was leashed outside. A pair of lady cops happily took their breaks outside to love on the hound dog.

While JT searched up background information for a potential victim named Klementyna, Gil put Dani in charge of Geralt’s questioning. Malcolm would be present to take notes and support Dani.

“What is your connection to Bożena Glod? Or the deceased Gia Borkowska?” asked Dani.

“I did not meet the dead woman,” said Geralt. “It is a missed connection, I regret.”

“How would you have known Gia Borkowska? For that matter, how did you come to know Bożena Glod, the woman you visited this evening?” continued Dani. She did not move save for her steady breathing, trusting Malcolm to get down pertinent information.

“We met through Father Ireneusz,” explained Geralt.

“A priest?” Dani turned her head to Malcolm, who nodded.

“I know him as Father Ira,” clarified Malcolm.

“He is the priest at St. Stan’s, correct?” Dani verified.

“Yes, the very one,” confirmed Geralt. “I knew Father Ireneusz from before he pastored the cathedral. He thought I might assist two very frightened women he ministered.”

“Did Father Ira tell you that Mrs. Borkowska was murdered?” asked Dani.

Geralt shook his head, blond hair catching the light. “I talked to him but my source on her death is the news. When I learned her fate, I worked faster to reach Mrs. Glod. To protect her.”

“May I go soon? I am not easy to leave her alone,” said Geralt.

“You’re planning on returning to Mrs. Glod’s residence?” asked Dani.

“Yes. She needs my protection,” said Geralt. “You will not keep me from my duty.”

“What are you, Mr. Rivia? Are you a priest? Are you a bodyguard? What makes you think that you can fend off a psychotic killer?” demanded Dani.

“I would violate many tenets of priesthood,” answered Geralt, arching his dark brow.

Malcolm’s eyes flicked from his notes, choking on his spit when Geralt’s golden eyes rested on him.

“Fair statement,” said Dani. She kicked Malcolm into focus underneath the table.

“I’m uniquely qualified to deal with the powers of darkness as you are trained to combat human evil. Given the chance, I can fight,” said Geralt.

“Are we finished here, Detective?”

Malcolm’s shoulder rubbed Dani’s.

“You’re here voluntarily,” reminded Dani. “Can you answer me one more question?”

“Very well, Detective,” he acquiesced.

“Is that your natural hair color or do you have a stylist?” asked Dani.

Geralt’s lips quirked. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. A good evening to you…?”

“Dani.” She extended her hand, intending to shake. Geralt’s hand dwarfed hers though he placed his hand below hers. Dani didn’t resist when he oriented her wrist into a ladylike hold that was almost courtly like in days of old.

“Bright. Malcolm Bright,” Malcolm said.

Malcolm was treated to a handshake that he could feel in the socket joint of his shoulder. He scooted to the door, holding it open for Geralt and Dani.

“Don’t you give me any of your psychoanalysis bull,” warned Dani. Her lip curved over her teeth. “Did you get one word of that interview?”

“I did not,” Malcolm half-joked. “At least the tape recorder was rolling.”

Their moment of levity broke when Dani escorted Geralt to the precinct where his dog awaited. Jaskier was having a fit, chomping his leash and pointing his nose until all his legs tensed, tail stiff. Then he was baying a howl into the new moon.

“Fuck,” said Geralt.

“What’s wrong with the poor guy?” asked Dani.

“He senses trouble,” said Geralt. “Watch this dog.”

“Geralt, where?!” Dani began but Jaskier nosed into her. She was left to snuggle a distraught creature while Geralt hailed a taxi.

“I’ve got it Dani!” cried Malcolm. He leapt into the next taxi. “Driver, I’ll pay you an extra $100 if you tail that cab.”

Malcolm lost tabs on Geralt’s cab on the Brooklyn bridge. He paid the fare and threw in an extra $20 for the cab driver’s earnest effort.

His phone rang. “What’s going on, Gil?”

“How close are you to Greenpoint?” asked Gil.

“Not out of my way, why?”

“There’s been a murder,” answered Gil.

Malcolm closed his eyes, gulping, when the Lieutenant ordered him to the residence of the deceased Bożena Glod. The same neighbor who previously called the cops on Mrs. Glod reported a built young man wearing all black stomping out of her house and leaving the door wide open. Police arriving on the scene noted the bloodied shoe prints from size 11 mens cleated boots.

The man himself sat on the curb, sipping from a silver flask.

“I know nothing. If I did, Zena would have lived,” said Geralt.

The officers who responded to dispatch searched Geralt and found nothing besides a pristine dagger that tested negative for human blood. No weapon could have explained the sadistic condition in which police discovered the body. As neither an eyewitness or a suspect, Geralt washed his hands of police involvement.

“He’s not the killer, but he possesses knowledge of why these old Polish seniors are targeted,” said Malcolm. “Our only hope to apprehend the killer is to find Feliks Lenski and Klementyna who is a mutual friend of all our victims.”

Malcolm spoke with Father Ira over the phone.

“Father Ira, how are you? I’m sure you’re under strain on what to say to your parishioners about these murders.”

“More than I can express in words, yes. But thank you for calling me. Is there anything that I could tell you that would aid your investigation, Malcolm?”

“Before Mrs. Glod was murdered, she apparently hired the services of a man named Geralt Rivia.”

“I recommended him myself,” stated Father Ira. “He is no mercenary or con artist. If he is unfriendly, that is his preference for distance. Geralt is a friend, no matter how worse your troubles become. He fights to protect those around him.”

“Then what is he?” asked Malcolm. “He’s not military or police or martial artist. He shows respect for old things.”

“Geralt is a rare breed. He comes from the old ways,” said Father Ira. “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.”

“He’s not a priest, Father. Nor do I believe that he’s a charlatan or con artist preying on the old folks to cheat them out of their savings,” responded Malcolm.

“He fits none of the above categories, Malcolm. When the old things are made flesh, you get a witcher,” said Father Ira.

“A witcher,” repeated Malcolm.

“When our champion prevails, defeats the villain, you pour him some ale. Toss a coin to your Witcher.” A kindly laugh crackled through their phone call. “I fear I can’t share more of our people’s lore. It’s not for a priest to sing bawdy lines.”

Geralt became more of a mystery after discussing him with Father Ira. Though he didn’t fit Malcolm’s profile for murder, he was high on their radar. The victims and Geralt knew more about their killer than what was shared with NYPD. While Dani and JT investigated the backgrounds of the elderly Polish victims, particularly their lives in Detroit, Malcolm had other plans.

Malcolm lodged a stakeout in a rental car at the Queens address which Geralt supplied to police, tailing him and Jaskier the hound upon departure. Geralt loaded up his big ugly matte green truck, a Mercedes-Benz Gruma, and drove off with his four-legged companion. Geralt double parked illegally in El Barrio near a blackened apartment building. Malcolm idled his rental and watched Geralt kick at the dilapidated stonework before traipsing to the big ugly Gruma. In stark contrast to his destination in El Barrio, Geralt inexplicably headed to the suburbs in Westport, CT. This time Geralt parked on a luxe driveway and knocked on the front door. Malcolm noted the house number and street name. However, Geralt was turned away from the porch not many minutes after. 

On the car ride trailing the Gruma, gridlocked on I-95 S, Malcolm used his phone to look up the Westport address and glean the property owner.

“Dani, hey can’t talk long, driving.”

“You? Behind the wheel?” asked Dani.

“I’m an exemplary driver when I’m not poisoned or drugged,” said Malcolm. His defensive tone cooled because he had an urgent favor to ask of her.

“I need the phone number to the resident who lives at 1164 Morning Glory Circle in Westport,” pleaded Malcolm. He gave her the property owner’s name.

“Hold up, you left New York? What are you on, Malcolm?” deadpanned the detective.

“A trail, Dani! I’m on the case. Geralt visited a house in Westport, didn’t have time to question the resident. Please, Dani!”

“Don’t hurt yourself. I’ll text you what I get,” said Dani.

Malcolm breathed in relief too soon.

“You should pull them puppy dog eyes on Geralt-o and try asking him nice where he been. If you on first names,” said Dani. She hung up with Malcolm blustering a protest.

He wasn’t allowed to be mad because Dani netted him an 860 area code phone number before he hit New York. 

“Yes, who is this?”

Malcolm introduced himself as NYPD. Though he slightly misrepresented himself, he got much needed answers.

“Who is the gentleman that knocked on your door this morning? You are not in trouble, but he is a person of interest in NYPD investigations. I would very much appreciate your cooperation.”

“Well, Mr. Bright. I didn’t get a name from the big, scary guy. But he was asking for a Samantha Stephens or Endora. He didn’t say what he wanted with these people besides that they were friends he had lost touch with. I’m afraid I know nothing more.”

“Thank you,” responded Malcolm. He ended the call and nearly missed it when the Gruma changed lanes.

Malcolm zoomed after Geralt to, of all places, Greenwich Village. Discontented with the lack of information from Geralt’s seemingly aborted ventures, Malcolm edged into a spot that was closer to a fire hydrant than he liked.

He lucked out and found Jaskier tied outside of Waverly Sub Station. Inside was a deli joint that had the typical black and white polished tiles and single seating with multi-color stools. Malcolm ruffled his hair from its customary shape and donned his Ray-Ban sunglasses, incognito mode, as he went in undercover as a hungry customer. He ducked his face behind his iPhone opened to a notes app.

The tall redhead behind the cashier grasped the business counter, catching herself mid-swoon. Malcolm smiled to himself from the high levels of attraction which the teenage girl broadcast.

“Can you get me the owner of this establishment?” requested Geralt.

The redhead dinged the service bell.

“Alex!!! Alex, come here for a sec!” the redhead called out as she pushed the brown door. 

Another girl her age, this time a young Hispanic teen with long, dark hair came out to ogle at their brawny customer.

“Hi, I’m Alexandra. How can I help you, sir?” said Alex. The redhead elbowed her.

“This guy says he wants to talk to your dad,” said the redhead.

“Are you a Russo?” asked Geralt. “I require one of your… specialties.”

Malcolm observed how Alex’s posture communicated more alertness, how her flirty smile pasted into a business-like angle.

“Harper, can you help the next customer? This guy wants something that we don’t have on our menu,” said Alex.

Geralt looked over his shoulder, raising both brows, before he smirked at Malcolm coiling behind his phone.

“Actually, he’s with me. Do you wish to come along, little friend?” asked Geralt.

“Sure thing,” muttered the busted undercover Malcolm.

Alex Russo took them through the wood door into the kitchen of the Waverly Sub Station. She walked them up to a white guy with thick brown hair in a slightly receding hairline. He wore a black apron and vinyl gloves as he prepped a customer’s order.

“Hold the pickles, is that you witcher man?!” exclaimed Mr. Russo. He dropped the dill.

“Hi, Jerry. I’m in the market for Specter oil,” said Geralt. “Seems to have dried up everywhere else.”

“Sp- Specter oil,” sputtered Jerry Russo.

A Hispanic woman entered the kitchen carrying an emptied tray. She stopped short when she saw her daughter and husband with two strangers. Her eyes went to the white-blond hair on the brawny man towering in her kitchen. Malcolm saw her go tense. She folded the tray in front of her chest like a shield and stepped between her daughter and Geralt.

“What are you doing here?” asked the woman.

“Good day to you, Theresa,” said Geralt. “What happened to your friend, the Santeria woman? I wouldn’t have imposed on your territory but I require specter oil. I needed it yesterday.”

“Gloria Mendoza was put away at Litchfield for fraud. Then the fire happened,” said Theresa, crossing herself.

“Witch at Litchfield. There’s a price to magic used for personal gain,” said Jerry. “Remember that Alex.”

With a look between her and her husband, Theresa steered away a protesting Alex and a tray of meatball subs back to work.

“Nice family,” said Geralt.

“Why did you come here? Plenty of witches for hire in New York,” asked Jerry. He rubbed his chest.

“I don’t need a palm reader or a card trick,” said Geralt. “Please, Jerry. The Stephens moved. I have no hope of locating Samantha in the mortal world. That mother of hers.”

“Excuse me. Mortals. Witches?!” repeated Malcolm.

“You brought another innocent into your problems!! Good grief, Geralt. I’ll give you what you want, but you stay away. If my sub station gets burned out or blown up, how do I send my kids to school? I’ve got to pay for the one who’s definitely a college boy!”

Jerry conjured from thin air, a glimmering pouch that felt like cool water. For all his annoyed and unwelcome words, Jerry Russo gave them complimentary sandwiches and sides before hustling them out. 

Malcolm thought that he should be freaked out by the existence of witches and wizards but oddly enough, magic didn’t need to explain itself. He cataloged magic as a type of energy to which he would devote later research.

Geralt cradled a precious and small corked glass bottle. 

“What is that?” asked Malcolm. He was surprised by how hungry he was and how well the food went down. As though the subs were fixed with magic, he couldn’t resist finishing one.

“If you wish to know, you must promise me that no other police interfere,” said Geralt. “I do not aim to break the law but law enforcement often bring complications. None of you are equipped for my line of work.”

“You’re not the one killing the elderly Polish folks,” said Malcolm.

“Not at all. I was working with them. Although Mrs. Glod’s death weighs on me. She could have lived. If I had not been with you,” said Geralt.

“Hey,” said Malcolm. “Don’t put this on the police when you’ve withheld information vital to our investigations.”

Geralt scowled and waited.

“Fine. Not like I’m a cop, anyway. I will not call for backup. There. Tell me what’s going on,” said Malcolm.

“Do you possess any weaponry forged by silversmith?” asked Geralt.

“I bought the axe with the roses. The night of the weapons sale. You were quibbling over that medieval Polish long sword,” said Malcolm.

“Good choice. Bring your weapon tonight,” advised Geralt.

“What’s tonight?” questioned Malcolm.

“We take on a wraith,” said Geralt, with much foreboding. 

“A wraith? Is that like a spirit or what the zealots say are demons?” asked Malcolm.

“Spirits?” scoffed Geralt. “Spirits do not strip the bowels of little old ladies. You need strength and magic to drive it back to hell.”

Malcolm stood his ground when Geralt’s hand settled on his shoulder.

“If I tell you to flee, you must do so at once. Leave me in whatever condition I am in. Your blood be on your head if you don’t,” warned Geralt.

Malcolm was in and out of his loft, the battle axe wrapped in a rough canvas sheet. He answered Dani’s phone call and lied through his teeth while dropping off the rental car. Lying made him sweat, as well as the Kevlar vest strapped under his shirt. 

Geralt picked Malcolm up in the big ugly Gruma and hightailed it to an address in Greenpoint, the house of Klementyna, aged 70. Her husband’s last name was Zmuda. She had biscuits for Jaskier the hound. Klementyna’s hair was dark gray all over and she drew her brows with black pencil and wore her thick silver crucifix on a chain. She smiled like a young lady watching Geralt eat her beef and beet borscht topped with sour cream. Malcolm picked at his bowl with his bread bits dipped into the savory broth.

“You are welcome here, Wiedźmin and young man. My daughter and grandchildren live here also but I lie. I say I remodel. Away they leave,” said Klementyna.

“Mrs. Zmuda, can you tell us why the killings? Why are you in danger?” asked Malcolm.

“We were like family,” Klementyna began. “Many of us come from nothing, less than nothing because family killed in labor camps. Almost over fifty years, I find dear Gia like my little sister in New York. She would have her daughter soon. Gia calls Wally first and then Żena. They know Feliks. They tell Gia move to good house Detroit, they help. Gia takes me with her, need help watching baby so she and husband work.”

“I live with Gia and husband until their fights getting bad. They helps me save my working money.”

Klementyna clutched her crucifix. “We live together, me with Borkowska. They live next to Wally. Then Żena two doors away. Finally, there is Feliks. Our houses together like little block in Krakow.”

Her lips trembled, highlighting the lines in her face, the nicks in her dry lips, the fuzz of her upper lip, the purpling capillaries on her nose as her skin went whiter than a bed sheet.

“Then the man came, in nice silk suit. Mr. Iago. He offer money not much for our little block. Feliks and Wally push him from Gia’s porch. He sells house across to blacks. Soon they come, bring drug, guns, women. Black evils.”

“Feliks invites Mr. Iago for talk. We put money together and say him take it. We buy house across and I move in, my name on property,” said Klementyna.

“Gia takes me to Feliks for dinner. Wally is there. So too Żena. Mr. Iago is on floor, neck broken. Feliks says help. Mr. Iago will sell to blacks. When blacks come, our little Krakow worth nothing. My sisters and brothers lose money if go. They stay, street gets dangerous.”

“What did you do with Mr. Iago’s body?” asked Geralt.

“Wally is butcher. Then we take pieces and put deep in ground too deep for rats,” said Klementyna. “For some years, it is quiet. I marry and move to New York with my husband’s family. Wally sell house and use money to buy deli business to do good. Wally’s money help Borkowskas move to Jersey until Gia’s husband leave church. Żena stay with Gia and help with children. We see each other at Stanislaus and peace again.”

“What about your friend Feliks?” asked Malcolm.

Jaskier stood on his hind legs and began howling. The panes of the window blackened as though sunset happened in a blink. A terrible wind disturbed the interior, sending snow globes and potted plants and dinner ware to the walls and carpet. Malcolm hastily threw canvas over himself and Klementyna, protecting their eyes and their heads from glass shards as the windows imploded in one mass blow out.

Klementyna clapped her hands, activating the lights in her living room area. The lights flickered, unstable, as the air became heavy and cold like they were entombed in a mausoleum.

Though Geralt had dripped Specter oil on his silver dagger and the Persian battle axe, nothing could have prepared Malcolm for his first encounter.

“No nie, Wiedźmin! Upiór!” yelled Klementyna.

“Jaskier!” snarled Geralt. “Get her out now!”

Jaskier’s whining could be heard over the inexplicable wuthering as he dragged his paws with Klementyna gasping around Jaskier’s extended neck. The both of them strained forward against the supernatural forces blowing their bodies from the exit, their panting breaths visible in unnatural cold.

Malcolm’s axe smashed the glass pane. With his arm sleeved inside the canvas sheet, Malcolm opened the door for Klementyna who Jaskier the hound pulled to the shelter of Geralt’s matte green truck.

The roaring wind gathered into an ominous shape as though the shadows flexed into muscle and sinew, helmed by a glowing skull. Hatred for the living emanated from its hollowed out skull. The wraith, as a negative psychic impression of one who once walked the earth, could not form a fully realized body. Gutless, legless, and merciless, the wraith’s swift movements were barely countered by Malcolm who heaved his anointed silver coated axe.

Malcolm was thrown to the rattling door, his back muscles spasming and arms screaming as he fended off an enemy which dwarfed him in strength and mass. 

“Jesus, oh God, shitshitshi—” Malcolm whimpered. His teeth clicked from the chill and his fear.

He turned his cheek, a thin line trickling down his face from ducking under a foul tongue which exsanguinated the murder victims. The axe’s iron shaft spun in his throbbing palms as Malcolm kicked his dangling legs, suspended and trapped on the busted door, unable to escape rows of teeth which roared for his innards.

By sheer luck, the silver inlaid roses of the axe head dripping with Specter oil glanced at the wraith’s fetid claws, like overgrown fingernails folded into bony rickets. The wraith hissed and recoiled, giving Malcolm space to drop and roll. The axe clanked noisily just as Geralt got in swipes with his silver dagger. The lights went out as the wraith dematerialized at the worst possible time.

“Shhh, it’s still here!” Geralt growled.

“NYPD! Open up!”

“I said no police!” said Geralt.

“That’s JT, oh Jesus, the team is gonna kill me,” uttered Malcolm.

Malcolm scrabbled to his feet and did his best not to look like the maniac holding the axe when police battered down the entrance and came in with firearms and tac lights.

“Bright, what the fuck!” yelled JT.

“God damn it, Malcolm!” Dani joined in.

Flashes of color from the light bar on marked police cruisers turned a pleasantly decorated interior into a horror scene, the red splashed on everything dimming to cold blue.

“Geralt saved the granny! Killer’s on premise!” shouted Malcolm. The beef broth rose like bile in the back of his throat. This is why he didn’t eat.

“We found Klementyna’s address! Where is she?!” demanded JT.

“Policja! I’m Klementyna. This my house. Help me!” they heard the old woman’s cries, heavily accented in her distress.

“Ma’am, stay back!”

“It’s Feliks! Feliks is doing this, I don’t know how!” Klementyna’s frail voice cascaded through the night like falling gravel.

“Wait a minute. You telling me a seventy seven year old white dude killed all those people?!” shouted JT.

The door jammed itself with such violence that the remaining panes fell out in another shattering of glass. JT and Dani’s tac lights aimed high and they caught visual of the wraith’s hellish scream. Unprepared for the ghastly onslaught of a deathly force coming down on them, the human detectives would have met their fates if not for Geralt thrusting his silver dagger into the wraith’s back, the oiled dagger point lodged in its evil heart.

The lights buzzed on, illuminating the foyer to at least 75 watts. The house almost groaned as the furnace kicked up a fuss, hot air blasting to compensate. Geralt had vanquished the wraith, dispelling its unnatural aura.

What remained of the wraith was Geralt’s dagger blooded to the hilt.

“Did you get him?” asked Dani. She saw the soaked metal weapon but was incredulous when they couldn’t find the attacker, mortally wounded or dead, when police cleared the house top to bottom.

“I didn’t miss,” answered Geralt.

Malcolm saw how the droplets from Geralt’s dagger flecked the welcome mat and hissed into black smoke upon contact. He knew it wasn’t over from Geralt’s scowl, knew that he still had a case to solve, and he couldn’t say one believable word of it to his friends.

“You’ll have to remodel,” said Malcolm to Klementyna.

“Small cost. No house is worth life,” said Klementyna, eyes that had seen much and lived much sunken in her wizened features.

“I’ll stay with you and keep vigil,” promised Geralt. 

“Is here anything I can do?” asked Malcolm.

Geralt hefted the silver axe. “I’ll take this. Police have my blade.”

“Nothing personal, Geralt. Your dagger has suspect's blood. Also, I wasn’t bout to throw my boy’s axe,” said Dani.

“You’d be good at it,” insisted Malcolm, more than little put out that Dani refused to try his thing.

Malcolm made tea while Dani took down a report of the night’s events from Klementyna and Geralt. Though the arrival of NYPD complicated matters, from JT and Dani independently following leads to Klementyna Zmuda as the next logical victim, Malcolm was reassured by their presence. He listened to the detectives’ findings. JT and Dani had figured out that the targeted victims were the seniors of the same parish, linked by their shared time in Detroit, pushed out by blockbusting and economic down times in the 70s when the car factory assembly lines screeched into unemployment and competition.

Klementyna confirmed the truth and Malcolm talked her through the anxiety attack which she understandably suffered after witnessing the monster which murdered her dearest friends. Though Geralt would stay overnight, his movements as a witcher were limited by the officers tasked with guarding Klementyna with Feliks Lenski wounded and denied of his latest kill.

“You’re sure you need my axe?” asked Malcolm, before parting. He had to couch his words with JT watching their every interaction. Dani was distracted from Jaskier the hound getting frisky with his paws on her.

“The upiór will come back for her if you don’t get Feliks,” answered Geralt. “Klementyna can put up garlic and keep her silver cross but it waits.”

Gil benched Malcolm when NYPD carried out an operation to capture Mr. Lenski at his last known address, a bungalow in the Catskills. The bus transported the ruddy corpse of Feliks Lenski, whose blood type matched samples from Geralt's dagger obtained at Klementyna's house. Lenski was intact but deceased, his body in puzzling fresh condition. Despite his exclusion from the scene of death, Malcolm luckily had the personal mobile number of the medical examiner.

“Seventy seven year old male presenting with penetrating heart injury with resultant hemopericardium,” began Edrisa. She was scrubbed up in the examination area, conducting an autopsy.

“Is this what killed him?” asked Geralt. He joined Malcolm in a visit that no one authorized.

“Considering that his body is otherwise intact, yes. I would say the stab to the heart did him in.” Edrisa smiled nervously. “Who’s your friend, Malcolm?”

Geralt didn’t get the chance to answer before the fluorescent lights flickered and their breaths clouded in plunging temperatures. Edrisa half turned and screamed, frozen with her gloves raised in the air. Smoke poured from the corpse of Feliks Lenski, curdling into a menaced shape.

Malcolm had time to draw a sharpened wood stake made of aspen. He plunged it into Lenski’s heart.

“Malcolm!” screamed Edrisa. “My subject!”

“Edrisa! Cut the head off!” shouted Malcolm. His hands scrambled through her scalpels, gardening shears, dissection tools; he knocked over the bone saw vacuum.

Due to security precautions, Geralt was not equipped with silver or refined steel weapon. He seized one of Edrisa’s long scalpels designed for postmortem subjects and drizzled Specter oil on the medical grade steel. The wraith howled when Geralt stabbed the anointed makeshift weapon into its gnarled hand. The wraith reared up and hit back, sending Geralt over the autopsy table and into the refrigeration unit, throwing open storage doors.

Geralt gripped his shoulder and charged at the wraith.

Malcolm laid hold of the bone saw and cut into Lenski’s neck, his one hand covering his mouth from airborne fragments. His movements drew the wraith’s ire. He dodged an aerial attack, rolling belly down onto the floor with the bone saw embedded a quarter inch from decapitation. 

Geralt lunged over Malcolm’s sprawled body, slashing at the wraith’s jaw with Edrisa’s scalpel. The wraith dissolved into shadows when Edrisa ran at the bone saw full tilt and sent Feliks’ head rolling. She waved at them, gasping and coughing before she revved up the bone saw vacuum to clear the air.

The man’s body blanched white neck to toes, flesh sinking until it appeared more skeletal. 

Malcolm’s hands cupped Geralt’s jaw, blue eyes intently skimming his split lip and the cut over his brow that needed stitches. The cut on Malcolm’s cheek from the attack at Klementyna’s house was scabbed over. Geralt smirked at him, tiger eyes almost hypnotizing.

“Yeah!” Edrisa exclaimed, readjusting her glasses. Then she groaned. “You two get out of here. I have to fudge my report to explain the damage to the body under my custody. Oh God, is this how corruption starts?”

“You did well,” assured Geralt.

“You’re alright, Edrisa?” asked Malcolm. He bit his lip. “There wasn’t any explanation I could give you for why we desecrated Lenki’s corpse.”

“Malcolm! I've just had my very first sighting of paranormal activity! Can’t handle that when you’re adorable and I should be pissed at you!” cried Edrisa.

“Edrisa,” flubbed Malcolm. His cheeks dimpled, an embarrassed smile from her bluntness. “I can help you clean up.”

“You’ve done enough. Out,” said Edrisa. She pointedly surveyed her destroyed autopsy table.

Malcolm helped Geralt out of Forensics. Geralt’s truck, the green Gruma, pulled up to them, steered by a skinny and petite man, pale with short brown hair. A silver medallion with a distinct insignia hung from the black choker tied around his neck.

“It’s my night to get the car but I shall be a good bard and drop you where you must get off. No dallying, come come.”

“That’s a collar,” said Malcolm. As someone familiar with the meaning of collars, he felt wickedly stupid and wanted to extricate himself but for Geralt’s arm firmly banded along his waist.

A tic pulsed in Geralt’s temple. “The collar’s magic. The barker is Jaskier. Don’t. Ask.”

“Okay then. We should get you to a trauma center for that gash,” said Malcolm, turning his focus to a less foreboding but immediate concern.

“’Tis but a scratch,” said Jaskier. “Now let us haul ass.”

They conversed briefly in the truck. Geralt spread himself comfortably in the backseat. Malcolm sat up front to give directions as Jaskier chauffeured Malcolm and Geralt to the loft on Lafayette & Kenmare.

“You took a big hit to the head when the wraith threw you across the room,” said Malcolm.

“If I’m concussed, it will heal,” replied Geralt.

“I’ve got a first aid kit. And booze,” said Malcolm.

When Geralt accepted his offer of hospitality, Malcolm immediately installed his Nightlock and security bar on the main access door, both devices for when he truly, truly needed his mother out of the building.

Malcolm did produce a first aid kit. His expression scrunched in confusion when his alcoholic wipes dissolved the bloody stripe that tacked up Geralt’s eyebrows and stuck his hair to his cheek. Malcolm soaked a clean kitchen towel with warm water, dabbing until Geralt’s skin, clean and unbroken, showed through.

“I’ll start with beer, if you have it,” said Geralt.

He kept a few bottles chilled for Gil’s occasional visits that went into late nights. Malcolm unscrewed the cap with a bottle opener and left it on his counter before passing a cold one to his guest. He sipped coconut water to rehydrate and avoid muscle cramps when he anticipated thrashing in bed from his nightmares.

“Help yourself. I’ll join you after I scrub off evil corpse,” said Malcolm. Mysteries were palatable until the splatter cramped his style. Not wanting to make his guest feel overlooked, he really did scrub quickly, rinsing out his conditioner after three minutes instead of five, and threw on his navy bathrobe.

Geralt inspected the weapons display, impressed that Malcolm had already cleaned and mounted the Persian battle axe. He had worn a camouflage T-shirt and dark stretch pants, in anticipation of bloodshed, and rightly so. His hair, usually neatly braided, fell in stringy waves around his shoulders. In plain clothes, his physique and his confident stature seared a memorable impression.

“I never said thank you for defending my friends from the wraith,” said Malcolm. “We closed a case that would’ve remained unsolved. That would’ve skewed perception to NYPD as unable to protect the elderly from a predator. My profile be damned."

“I do not envy your talents. You can see the monsters but you do not fight them well. How many of your days pass with you jumping from the shadows?” In spite of his direct speech, Geralt was not unsympathetic.

Malcolm nodded. “It’s a curse. We can’t all have super strength and speedy healing, Mr. Witcher.”

From the simple and appreciative way that Malcolm was eyeing him up, Geralt stepped into him until they were toe to toe.

“There are down sides to every gift. Do you know what it is that I feel the strongest after I’ve subdued a creature?”

“Relief, that you’ll live after all. Then regret for whatever didn’t go as it could have,” said Malcolm.

“That passes,” said Geralt. He stroked along Malcolm’s shoulder, fingering the side of his pale neck and his soft ear.

“Hunting raises up my nature.” His unaffected inflections, definitely Slavic in origin, crept into his quiet words.

“I don’t… have anywhere to be for a couple days,” said Malcolm, before Geralt pinned him to the glass display windows.

* * *

A pained expression crossed Malcolm’s face from the pressure on his bruises. Geralt slid the bathrobe down to Malcolm’s elbows and turned him around. The collar of Malcolm’s robe curved around the swell of his ass. Geralt’s strong and rough fingers brushed mottled skin. 

“You take pain very well,” said Geralt.

Malcolm’s head tilted, blue eyes on Geralt’s image reflected in the glass. Geralt’s knuckles skimmed his crevice and Malcolm gasped, the subtle touch arousing him until his cock bobbed into his groin.

The sleeves of the bathrobe slid from Malcolm’s slack arms. No sooner did he pivot to face Geralt was he swept up and off the floor. Malcolm’s stomach fluttered from how effortlessly Geralt lifted him as though to him Malcolm were lighter than air. Geralt’s hold wrapped around his middle, knuckles fisted in his damp hair. Malcolm’s legs encircled Geralt’s waistband, eyes shut when Geralt nudged his head forward and crushed his lips, tasted Gil’s beer. Malcolm’s hands curled over Geralt’s shoulders, rocking his body to press into the firm cock he could feel through Geralt’s clothes. Geralt squeezed his ass and his finger teased around Malcolm’s tight little hole.

All Malcolm could do was hang on and bury his face in Geralt’s neck, hyper focused on the heat of their bodies soaking into Geralt’s clothes. Geralt headed right to bed and each of his footfalls made Malcolm’s heart jump in his chest and more of his sanity, already at a premium, fall away.

Geralt threw him onto the extra firm mattress.

Malcolm forgot himself as he propped himself up on his elbows, staring between his wide open legs, openly in awe of Geralt tossing his shirt and stepping out of his pants. Malcolm watched the play of muscles when Geralt bent his legs to remove his socks. Geralt’s hair was whiter than corn silk bleached in the sun but the hair speckling his chest and covering his lower arms was dark and coarse. So were the hairs of his underarm, an unkempt growth that somehow added to his rugged fitness. Malcolm’s gaze locked onto his stiff cock, a good thick nine, bedded in a black garden which Geralt did keep trimmed if not shaved.

“Get yourself ready,” said Geralt.

Malcolm went onto hands and knees to grab lube and a ribbon of magnums, the thinnest brand Malcolm could purchase. He squawked in surprise when a large hand closed around his ankle and dragged him. The lube rolled into his hair as Geralt captured his arms and trapped him for more kisses, immobilized him under his densely packed weight. Malcolm couldn’t move, even if he wanted. He remembered how safe he felt underneath Geralt, with the wraith coming for them. Though Malcolm literally knew nothing of the man’s history, Geralt had won his trust.

Those tiger eyes seemed to look right through him. Malcolm yearned from head to toe as he thrust his lubed fingers into himself. He wanted to choke on Geralt’s cock but Geralt was already rolling down the condom and adding more lube. Malcolm tugged himself as Geralt inched in, the heat of his cock maddening Malcolm besides the burn of split flesh. For all of his impatience, Geralt seemed as enthralled with Malcolm’s smooth skin, translucent and untouched by the sun. Geralt’s skin was also pale but he was grittier and hadn’t washed off the sweat from fighting the damned. Geralt’s pungent body teased Malcolm’s own primal urges, the craving for rough and tumble release.

Once more Malcolm was treated to Geralt’s strength as he was lifted like a rag doll, his waist locked inside hands that swallowed up his lithe form. Malcolm’s fingers luxuriated in the hairs curling on Geralt’s sculpted chest. Malcolm was on his knees, straddling a war god cast with eyes like molten bronze. Human or not, Geralt was made for intense encounters. 

Eyes watering from how much Geralt filled him, Malcolm clenched his jaw and disciplined his breaths. He hadn’t let himself want any man like this, never mind another person. He regretted not having any wine, wished that he had used restless nights to open himself with toys.

Geralt’s arms spanned Malcolm’s headboard which creaked from his grip. Malcolm was moved by how very obviously Geralt kept his physical power in check, how considerate he was with a partner who was not recently practiced. With a wanton groan, Malcolm trusted his weight on Geralt, anchored himself on his protector, and arched until he was fully seated.

His balls tightened and he was leaking, but Malcolm wouldn’t touch himself, didn’t want it over. He wanted to be on a knife’s edge while his lover broke him in after a long and lonely spell.

Geralt’s face was truly sublime to behold. He looked absolutely drunk from the hot press of Malcolm’s body, arms flexing as he struggled to control himself. His brows furled into thicker lines as Malcolm’s body took in his length, as Malcolm gained confidence, and moved his pelvis with more finesse. Malcolm raised himself from the base of Geralt’s cock and let the spongy head catch just inside his rim before clenching his hole and tightening his glutes, thrusting in shallow motions until he had Geralt dripping all over with more sweat. 

Geralt’s hand gripped his chin and his kisses nipped Malcolm’s lips until they were swollen. Malcolm’s tongue swiped where Geralt’s lip split and he tasted blood. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe when Geralt’s hand tightened. He felt how easily Geralt could’ve snapped his neck.

Then Malcolm’s world turned as Geralt hefted him again, this time rolling him on his belly. Geralt’s hand gripped the back of his neck, holding him down while palming his raised ass. Geralt mouthed what sounded like more Polish as he pressed wet kisses on Malcolm’s bare back. Then Malcolm bit his knuckles as Geralt’s fingers grabbed his ass and his thigh and he paid back Malcolm for his whorish teasing with slow and deep thrusts that had Malcolm fucking the space between his bent knees. Malcolm’s toes curled and he almost howled into the sheets when Geralt’s thumbs kneaded the bruises in his back, filling him with pleasure and wringing out delectable pain.

Then Geralt curled on top of him, mounting him in a hot and close press, his hands braced on top of Malcolm’s possessively. Fine, golden hair curtained Malcolm’s flushed face as Geralt licked and suckled the unguarded skin on his sensitive nape and growled foreign syllables, like endless purring that soaked Malcolm’s pores. Malcolm shivered all over but Geralt kept him firmly locked down, wouldn’t let him stroke off into completion.

With almost sadistic amusement in his normally serious face, Geralt twisted Malcolm onto his side and raised his leg, gentling his movements, rolling his hips until he opened Malcolm in a wide circle, his length skimming along a spot inside Malcolm that made his throat whine in mangled pleas. Any time he was about to orgasm, Geralt stopped altogether before shifting and posing Malcolm however he wanted. Malcolm was in a feverish delirium as Geralt shouldered Malcolm’s legs, raising Malcolm’s body until his shoulders and his head lulled onto his pillows. Then Geralt drilled him in a downward pile drive that made Malcolm rock hard. 

Malcolm succumbed to the brutal seduction, from the sight of Geralt’s cock slotted deep, the twitch of his muscles, his eyes burning themselves in Malcolm’s mind forever. Malcolm was overheated and over worked to the point that his cum poured out of him, no longer creamy, but runny like a woman’s juices. His cum dribbled down his limp body, rivulets that glazed the hairs on his groin, made his nipples sticky.

And even then, Geralt’s monstrous stamina wasn’t satiated. He allowed Malcolm to drink water before Malcolm’s cheek pillowed the thick pillar of Geralt’s thigh.

“Take off the damn condom,” croaked Malcolm.

Muscles tenderized, resistance pounded out of him, Malcolm swallowed and moaned around relentless cock, his watering mouth obedient until the taste of Geralt’s empty condom gave way to succulent texture and slick thrusts. Not fully recovered, Malcolm’s cock strained at half mast every time Geralt ground his hips, choking him good, smothering him with fullness. Because he trusted Geralt, the act of accepting when he was wickedly overextended, even gagging and suffocating, added to Malcolm’s bliss. Malcolm pushed through the soreness of his jaw and simply let himself get fed as he endured Geralt’s ardent passion.

Geralt was slick everywhere, his shining sweat further emphasizing the definition of his muscles. He stroked himself as the edges of Malcolm’s vision darkened. 

“Sleep. You can sleep. I’ll take care of myself,” said Geralt. He kissed at Malcolm’s neck, at his dampened temple, tonguing Malcolm’s ear.

“I want to fade with you inside me,” said Malcolm. He shook his head when Geralt reached for protection, managing to flick the condom away. He smiled sloppy stupid and embarrassed through the yawning.

“You’re fucking great, Malcolm,” muttered Geralt. His hunger deepened as he jerked off, staring into Malcolm’s satisfaction. He gathered Malcolm into his arms, expelling an impassioned cry as he sank easily into a loose and gaped opening, as he felt Malcolm’s rawness for the first time. 

“Fuck, that's too good,” grunted Geralt. His arm snaked under Malcolm’s neck as he hovered cautiously. His other hand cupped Malcolm’s face.

“I love it, Geralt. Keep going,” said Malcolm. He put his hand into Geralt’s and their fingers twined. Geralt’s mouth sucked on his pulse point, dipping Malcolm into the mattress. He wasn’t going anywhere with Geralt’s leg like a marble column holding him fast. 

Malcolm’s lids shut and he let his fantasy take him.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Polish idioms:
> 
> Nie wywołuj wilka z lasu..........Don't call a wolf out of the woods. The saying pertains to a situation where someone is invoking an outcome that is not wished for or which could even be dangerous, a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts.
> 
> Co ma wisieć, nie utonie..........What's supposed to hang, won't drown. This one is more about fatalism and basically means that what is about to happen will happen.
> 
> \- 9 Odd Phrases Poles Love to Use


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